


The Hermit of Cowdenbeath

by LadyTroll



Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [11]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band), Original Work
Genre: (somewhat) good Zargothrax, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Fantasy, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Roleswap, a very dissatisfied hermit appears!, magic or science - could be both, stubborn wizard indeed, the regular GH disclaimer applies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28496421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: Strange dreams have led our wizard to strange places that are inhabited by even stranger hermits.
Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540978
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally!
> 
> This part has one of the first things I wrote when I began working on this story/series. You can read that original here: [click here and scroll down to Nr.2](https://uupiic.tumblr.com/post/188459786728)

Being a dull and utterly boring day, it was perfect for nothing of interest to happen. Clouds, grey and heavy, hung low over Cowdenbeath, and it appeared that just a little more – and they would get caught into the occasional tree, or the chimney of a house just tall enough. There were earthen tones and greys in the landscape as far as the eye could see, and the scenery that would have been captivating during the summer now appeared void of life and forsaken on a level that regular mortals were not able to comprehend just yet.

It was not that _irregular_ mortals were able to comprehend it much better, or, rather, it was the fact that the mortal in question did not care for sightseeings and in-depth ponderings of the meaning of life and death and the futility of one’s actions in the face of the uncaring force that was the Universe and whatever deranged beings that watched over it. Certainly not when he was stranded in what might as well have been the middle of nowhere, by his – and possibly everybody else’s, too – standards.

There had been a subconscious nudge, to take the path to the right that lay ahead, as Zargothrax approached the area. He had made approximately a hundred steps down it, too, when it dawned on the wizard:

_Something is off about this._

There was absolutely no reason for him to take this path, other than his brain _telling_ him to. And he knew better than to trust something that he had seen and knew how easily it could be swayed.

And so, there he was again, on his initial route, staring into the wilds that were so very keen on keeping him out that the nudge appeared again, again, and again, stubbornly so, like that unpleasant itch after a long day of walking that demanded the leg be bounced, only for it to get, just as stubbornly, ignored by the wizard who was inclined to take none of its shit. The area grew wilder and less hospitable-looking by the moment, in compare to the place Zargothrax had come from, with stubby trees and boulders taking up a considerable part of the landscape. This was definitely different from the other places that he had sought through and that fit what little information he had managed to scrape from the strange message and own memories. There were definitely stones here, and there were most definitely ancient charms hanging in the air that seemed to deter those who came wandering into the wilds.

Whether this was for the better or the worst, he would soon find out, the wizard figured.

He was not really the best at detecting other wizards’ spells, and never had been, but, to Zargothrax’s relief, he could spot the different areas the enchantments stemmed from. At the very least, he counted five places of power, all of which just about beamed with magical energy, and it was, frankly, enough for him to determine where exactly he should go next.

It was hardly possible that whoever had set them up, had fashioned them in a circle just because they felt like it.

Looking back, Zargothrax wished he had had the healthy sense to turn down the path and walk away without questioning all how’s and why’s.

It felt like the cold claws of death herself were clutching his heart. Dread crept into the wizard’s mind, and his whole being felt as if encapsulated in ice. Goosebumps covered Zargothrax’s skin, and he found himself clutching his staff like it were his lifeline to the world itself. Just a little more, the little, squeaky, terrified voice at the back of his head whispered to him, and something was going to launch itself at him from behind the nearest standing stone, or a tree, or an extraordinary large patch of dead grass. Wolves, stray goblins, maybe even the prince’s soldiers, or one of his friends and allies.

The wish to turn around and run was almost overwhelming.

Except, there was this thing about magic that every single wizard knew:

If there is magic involved that stubbornly insists you have to go in a certain direction, then you must turn around and walk into the opposite one.

A regular human, or a humanoid, Zargothrax assumed, would have already turned the tail and bolted out of here as fast as their legs could carry. The sorcerer, however, pressed on, hoping that – in theory, at least – the field that just did not want to let him through, to whatever it was set up to protect, was going to end at some point. And that, when it _did_ end, there was not going to be another nasty surprise waiting for him, for the young sorcerer had seriously begun doubting his ability to take much more of such magical punishment to his mind, and going insane because of an overly-paranoid wizard was not on his to-do list at the moment.

\- Never mind that, - the sorcerer muttered, to himself. – Just. Keep walking. Amazing! Look at how much energy was put into them, to last for so long with random cunts dropping by! Yet again, I’m probably the first to make it through to the second circle in a hundred years. Wait, if the others are “random cunts”, then what does that make _me_? – He thought for a moment, before shrugging. – Well, at least it’s not sunny today. I suppose that’s a plus. A year, and the blasted thing still does… the thing. I should have found a way to fix it, by now! Oh, well. Never heard or read anyone else talk about the guy. The old man was probably one of the last, - he had to stop and pull himself together, to be capable to move on, despite the forefeeling screaming that he had to get out of here as fast as he could, - to speak to him. I mean, if he had mastered a discipline _that_ difficult, he was probably an old man even then. _Will you stop that,_ \- the sorcerer paused again, to pull the blade of his staff from the soft soil. – Some walking stick _you_ are. If I keep doing that, I might as well start looking for a new blade. Would you look at that, - he tsked. – Well, the ground sure is soft here. would be a good place for farmers, provided it wasn’t warded to hell and back by a paranoid old dick who died ages ago. I understand wanting people to stay out, but to do so after you’re dead? Perhaps he died suddenly, and the wards just stayed there? If there are at least five… oops, no, _seven_ places they’re set up in, it’s probably stones. I should take a look around, once I’m finished… uh… taking a look around? That sounded weird. I mean I should go looking for the sources of this fuckery. _“Take a scout with you,”_ she says. Wonder how I’d get them through here. Can you just grab and drag a goblin, or do they try to tear your face off then? Hardly doubt I’ll have to walk through this cunt of a spell when I’m going back. Speaking of that, I do hope I’m not walking in circles. If I know myself – and I _do_ know myself, then…

Unlike the slow build-up that had been present when he entered the protective circle, the feeling of terror was lifted suddenly, and it felt as though a great weight had been removed from the wizard’s shoulders.

Well, that certainly was something.

To Zargothrax’s disappointment, the area was nothing out of the extraordinary. He was not sure what he had expected to see, but there were no strange (stranger than they were elsewhere, in any case) stone circles there, not even many large boulders that could be covering an entrance to whatever lay hidden here. Just random stones, trees, and patches of dead grass that made the place look similar to so many other places he had seen over the last couple of weeks. The sorcerer let his sight wander, in hopes to catch onto something that looked worthwhile. Nothing. The only thing that looked remotely interesting, even if just in terms of a landmark, was a small hill.

He could use that, as a started point, to cast a few spells and see if he could detect anything above or _under_ the ground that way.

***

_Nothing,_ Zargothrax concluded, after a couple of minutes spent, examining the area as tentatively as it went.

If there was something, it had most certainly been charmed as well. Another circle of protection, also powered by the same warding sites as the magic that had attempted to keep him out. Unfortunately for him, it meant that literally any tree, stone, or patch of grass could hide an entrance ( _if_ one was even there, to begin with), and the wizard had to be prepared to be stuck here for some time, checking each of them manually.

Zargothrax dropped down on the slope of the hill and began mapping out the surroundings. He reckoned he would only have to search the area within the second circle; though whether or not it was actually circle-shaped, and, most importantly, where its borders lay, was another question.

The wizard fell onto his back and stared into the sky for a moment. His faulty eye did not enjoy this activity too much, but (and this was both a thing of pride and annoyance at the same time), he had gotten used to it. Time and again, he had attempted to cast one or another spell on it that he had found, or designed, on it, and time and again it went away for a few days, only to return later.

 _Must have been something on the axe_ , the healer had said, back then, _probably poison, or whatever the owner used, to polish it._

The ground felt exceptionally hard here. Even after a trek all over a place filled with rocks, this was unexpected, especially since the slope had looked soft as a pillow. The sorcerer turned to his side and rose, supporting himself on an elbow, then brushed away the moss that covered the place a-plenty.

It could be an old burial mound, from the times before the Kingdom of Fife. At least that was what the stone plates with ancient-looking ornaments and inscriptions lead the sorcerer to believe (to be quite honest with himself, everything older than one hundred years looked “ancient” to people; Zargothrax had witnessed crafty merchants sell old, chipped clay vases to the rich landowners, as relics of old, and they were none the wiser that, instead of an artefact made by “a pottery master serving in the court of the king of a kingdom long swallowed by the Highlands”, they had purchased and placed on their mantelpiece, the failed third work of a potter’s apprentice from four villages to the north). 

Zargothrax sighed. Perhaps the people who had erected this place had simply wished it to stay undisturbed by insolent travellers and treasure hunters rummaging through the countryside like they owned the place. There could be a guardian designated, to watch over it, who fed magic into the spells keeping it safe.

These “ancient people” had to be completely paranoid then, seeing how well-protected they had made this place. The part nudging him away from the original path – that one he could understand. But the sheer terror that followed? _That_ had been completely unnecessary.

_What is in there, anyway? Hardly doubt they’d go to such great lengths, for a few dead people?_

Closer inspection, in shape of a hand placed on the stone surface and an incantation spoken, revealed three bodies in a burial mound created for four.

Four stones, on four graves.

Three occupied, one vacant, when the plates reassured that, indeed, four people had found their resting place here.

In a place that did not permit one to scan the underground.

One did not have to be a genius, to figure out that something was off here.

The stone plate gave in to the spell with ease, being lifted into air and hovered above a hole in the ground. There was a flight of stairs hacked into stone that lead down to a corridor, and from there on there was a passage that led into darkness.

\- _Oh,_ \- was all that Zargothrax managed, at the moment.

You would not even suspect there was something like this here, if you did not know what to look for.

 _Here’s to the hope I don’t get lost in a labyrinth, or something,_ the sorcerer pleaded, as he descended the stairs. The stone plate settled into its former place a moment later, as though it had not been disturbed at all, cutting off what light there had been coming from the surface and leaving the wizard in darkness.

***

Lucky for him, the corridor led straight forwards without separating into different tunnels for quite some time, even though it did nothing in terms of fighting off underground-induced paranoia, and so the wizard proceeded to mark his path with shimmering check marks on the wall, as he went along. If he _did_ get lost, later on, all he would have to do was follow them outside. The red, scary flame at the top of his staff trembled with each step, casting just as scary and trembling light on the walls of the seemingly never-ending corridor that was empty enough for any sound to bounce, ominously so, before it faded into the distance.

Humans, Zargothrax concluded, once and for all, were clearly not born or meant for wandering dark passages under the ground. He wondered whether this place was a part of the ancient dwarven tunnels that were rumoured to stretch all through the country and that had been used, as the means of travel, from one settlement and trade point to the other, by the dwarves of old, when aversion to all things surface still run strong in their blood. As the old stories went, time had passed and the underground folk had recognized trade with humans as beneficial to their people and thus abandoned their old passages, in favour of surface roads that did not have to be carved from the cold, uncaring stone.

A centipede – the wizard did not even want to know how long this thing was, let alone how it had come to be here – crawled down the wall, crossed the corridor and disappeared in a crack in the opposite wall. A rodent – Zargothrax did not notice, or care, what kind of animal it was, just that it was small and fluffy, with a long tail – skittered across the floor, squealing as it disappeared in the darkness behind the wizard’s back.

Down and criss-cross it went for now, and Zargothrax was reminded of the tunnel back in the goblin village. The only difference was that this one left an impression that was far from inviting. It was dark and stuffy, and, instead of glowing mushrooms and crystals on the walls, there were just scarce descendants of the rotting plant matter that covered the floor, and which the wizard would constantly slip on. At some point during the lonely track, something distantly resembling a squirrel leapt from an alcove, bared its ridiculously small teeth, hissed just as Goblin would have, and charged at the intruder.

Zargothrax sighed and shook the angry, squeaky ball of fur off his cloak.

\- I’m here for a dead hermit, not to contest your territorial claims.

It was a long walk, but, eventually, the corridor ended at an underground crossroad with three possible paths to choose from.

 _Not like I don’t have the time for this,_ the wizard fumbled with his spectacles for a moment, before putting up with the fact that, whatever charms had been in place outside, worked down here as well, and he might as well be treading around in the dark when he used magic in the caves. Whoever had lived here had left enough cunning wards behind to ensure he was left undisturbed even after his death, and Zargothrax reckoned he should be grateful that he had been allowed to use minor spells and keep his disguise and the light.

This? This simply added to the urge to raise the hermit from the dead, if only just so he could personally send that cunt back into the void again.

The wizard paced about for a while. At the first moment, it appeared easy. Just make a choice and follow through with it. There were just three corridors, and he could always return and check the next one, if they turned out to be dead ends, or held nothing of interest.

The catch was that, as Zargothrax had already established, he was not just dealing with a dead hermit here. He was dealing with a dead hermit who had put enough wards around his hermit dwellings to ensure curious people, wizards included, did not stick their nose where they were not supposed to, and thus there was no guaranty that these corridors were not likewise booby-trapped with nasty wards – a little surprise, for the cunts who had managed to crawl this far – and not all of those would be as amusing as a bellicose love child of a squirrel and a hamster.

The flame enveloping the ruby trembled and danced, as it gave in to a faint breeze and leaned towards one of the tunnels. The wizard bowed his head in mock defeat, sighing, and stood there for a moment. 

Right now, it was as good of a way to choose as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, check marks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're never gonna guess what my favourite spells in DA:I are :P

The tunnel took a few more turns, before ending in a small cave. That itself would not have been strange, for one expected caves and caverns, and alcoves, and whatnot else, when they ventured into abandoned cave systems.

Was _was_ strange, however, was how it was set up.

Zargothrax had not seen many abandoned hermit dwellings before. In fact, he had seen only one – this one – so he did not exactly know what he had expected, out of something a person who did not want to communicate with the rest of the world had lived in. Certainly not something like this.

One normally imagined a regular cave with just a makeshift place to sleep. A campfire, and maybe a couple of personal items, at most. This one, this was something completely unexpected. Where a regular cave had stones, crawling creatures and perhaps a glowing mushroom or two, if you were lucky, this one had furniture. Old one, but furniture none the less. Shelves, a couple of chairs, a couple of tables. A bookshelf next to the dark exit to another corridor leading deeper into the tunnel system beyond. In one corner, there was an alchemist’s bench. A large, heavy-looking wooden chest with carvings stood at the wall on the opposite to the entrance Zargothrax had used, and there was a low table not far from it, with a couple of open books and a scroll on it. The quill in the inkwell was moving gently in the breeze that found its way through the corridor. The cave was a bit dusty, just like a cave should be. A bit disorderly, just like one imagined the house would be where a person had lived who did not have to care about what other people might think of them. A much-suffered rug covered the floor under the low table – a tell-tale mark of how it had most likely been a favourite spot for the inhabitant of this quaint underground house. Despite its location – and the lack of any visible sources – the cave was warm, and the flickering light cast by the candle on the table bounced off of a pair of spectacles right next to the inkwell and danced on the walls, lending the setting a feeling of home. A weird, unorthodox home Zargothrax had never thought could be called by that name at all, but a home none the less.

Now that Zargothrax thought of it, the cave did not look as close to abandoned as he had expected.

In fact, it did not look abandoned at all.

_It looked very much inhabited._

Of course, _that_ realization only hit when the wizard was already standing in the middle of a spell circle alit with rows of symbols, like ribbons woven of bright light with a purple tint to it that caused his faulty eye to respond with unpleasant pulsation, may the deceiving darkness of the setting be cursed! It was as though the intricate spell had appeared right out of nowhere, simply spawned from the ground right there and then, created, _tailored_ , for him. Trying his best to keep the left eye closed, Zargothrax gazed down at the circle… sigil… whatever it was, never having seen anything of this kind before. There were symbols, lots of them, half of which he did not recognize, while half of the other half appeared archaic versions of what sorcerers used nowadays. The spell rotated, slowly so, hovering a few millimetres above the ground. It flickered with lightning when the wizard moved, instead of binding him in place like he had expected it would – like all normal wards would -, and there was the smell of a thunderstorm in the air.

By the time the author of the cunning enchantments finally appeared in his field of vision, Zargothrax had already felt sorry, more times than he would have liked to admit, for entering without permission – or at the very least for failing to make sure the place was actually _uninhabited_ , before he did, rather than relying on a belief that it _would_ be.

Alas, as his teacher loved to say: great teachers and reckless pupils alike were brought down easily by their confidence alone.

The inhabitant of the cave – for there was no doubt it was them – entered from the same corridor Zargothrax had, leaving the wizard to curse himself silently, for not looking behind him during his trek through the caves, and crossed the room without a hurry, their back on the intruder. There was nothing impressive or threatening about the person. Inconspicuous, unassuming clothing concealed tall and slender build; they were pale, as one would expect somebody who spent most of their time underground would be, and they moved with the slow steps of a person who did not have a reason to hurry, almost lazily so. A monk’s cowl covered their shoulders, and its hood obscured their face. The only thing remarkable about them was the aura. Even a regular person with no connection to magic whatsoever would have been able to notice the strange air they had about them. It made the hair on the back of one’s neck stand, and there was something powerful and commanding about it.

Mostly, though, at least in Zargothrax’s humble opinion, that command run down to: _”Don’t talk to me, or I swear to gods..!”_

The sorcerer attempted to negate the circle he stood in, only for the spell to become brighter than it had been before, and the lightnings that had, until now, kept their distance on the outer circle of symbols, spread into the whole carcass of the spell and flickered, before sending a tingling feeling up his legs, as a warning.

Clearly, it could only be dispelled from the outside. The only thing Zargothrax had achieved with his move was to extinguish his own magic, including the fire atop of his staff. He was caught like a mouse in a trap. A stupid, reckless mouse who thought himself to be clever, but who had nonetheless walked right into the gaping mouth of a cat.

Served him right, for declining the _karrikeh’s_ offer of a scout to accompany him. Even if he would have had to drag the goblin through the wards as it was trying to bite his hand off, they were still masters of disarming spells and slithering their way out of traps (provided they were not distracted by food or shiny things, of course), having proven time and again to be wittier and more cunning than most wizards.

\- I would not do that, if I were you.

It was a well-meant warning, not a threat, and Zargothrax breathed in relief. A warning was good, it meant that not all was lost and that one had the chance to get out of the ordeal alive. This was roughly the fifth time this year that he had been threatened what other people might call within inches of his life, but those people had not been the ones who had to escape a siege, and he simply called those occasions – an inconvenience. Unlike the previous cases, this was not a spoken threat, for the spell circle on the ground conveyed it better than any words ever could. Unfortunately for the sorcerer, it also conveyed the cold, hard truth that, unlike the rebels with their miniscule threats towards his (very much wizardly) person, the inhabitant of this cave would not be intimidated by a showcase of spells, which left Zargothrax with no other option than to try to talk his way out of the mess he, granted, had walked right into.

The wizard was about to open his mouth and introduce himself, when he was interrupted – in most rude manner, at that.

\- What do you want here?

\- I mean no harm, - and it was the truth, - I came here, looking for something. There used to be a hermit living here, a long time ago.

\- So, you came looking for somebody who you knew was no longer here? – the inhabitant of the caves sat on the chest, so that he was now across the room, from the intruder. He did not appear angry, just amused about the magic fool who had stumbled right into his trap. – What did you hope to find here? Aside from a skeleton covered in dust and cobwebs, that is?

\- I heard he was a great sorcerer. He’s supposed to have mastered a discipline in magic that’s no longer even taught!

\- Yes, that is true, I suppose. And you – what? Hoped to raise him from the dead and have a chat? Unless you’ve stolen the robe somewhere, I can see you are a necromancer. The undead that I have seen are usually not too keen on talking, they normally just want to eat you while you’re still alive. So, why are you here?

\- I hoped for books… scrolls… anything that could help. The Hammer of Glory has poisoned the prince’s mind, and he is looking for as much power _and_ glory as he can find, to seize and rule every land he can, and there’s nothing that can stop the damned thing! On his order, the practitioners of magic in Auchtermuchty were slaughtered, for he feared they would bond against him. If there is even the slightest chance to defeat him, something that the magisters missed, I must find it!

\- How did you find this place? – That question came unexpected, but not exactly unawaited, even as the one asking appeared to completely ignore the things said by Zargothrax just moments ago.

Zargothrax pondered on an answer, for a moment.

\- Not really that difficult, if something wants me to turn around and walk into the opposite direction, by any means necessary, – the wizard finally admitted. – I noticed there were places… hm… areas there that just about radiated magic, so I assumed that whatever they are keeping people from, it must be in the centre. – He noticed his capturer was nodding, as if approving of the words, as he went along. – The first circle works on random peasants and travellers just fine. The second circle is for annoying cunts, _such as myself, I guess,_ who don’t know what’s good for them, no? Took some time crossing, but I doubt you set it up with the intention for it to be easy. That’s your enchantments, right?

\- How many?

\- I’m sorry, what? – The question hit the figurative floor from under the sorcerer’s feet.

\- How many warding sites have I set up, out there?

\- Seven.

\- Nine. Not bad.

\- So, I haven’t just _stolen a robe_ , have I?

\- I know what happened in Auchtermuchty, - again, Zargothrax’s last remark went ignored, leaving the wizard grumbling, and he would have marched over and said what he thought of it, right into the man’s face, had it not been for the spell he was currently standing in, - and I have, time and again, heard rumours of the king’s men hunting a fugitive. A great wizard is on the loose, they say. An ancient magus, - the stranger removed his hood, - they call him. Though I believe that’s too great of a flattery, in regards to you.

The man snapped his fingers, and the intricate spell disappeared, soaking into the ground at once, as though it had never existed, and Zargothrax relaxed. Slightly.

\- So, you want to stop the prince, and so you came looking for a hermit who you knew was probably long dead. Consider you’ve found him.

\- Yes, very funny. – The young sorcerer stepped away from the area he had been caught in – just in case, even though he was beginning to realize that the trap had not been there when he entered, but, rather, had been conjured on the spot, by the inhabitant of the cave. – You want me to believe that you, _you_ are the same hermit my teacher spoke about? The one he met a hundred years ago? _That_ hermit?

In Zargothrax’s defence, it was difficult, if not downright _impossible_ , to believe that this was, truly, the same person his teacher had spoken about. Or, rather, there was absolutely no way this _could_ be the same person. The dark hair showed no trace of silver in them, the face that bore an almost bored expression on it, as though he heard a similar tirade every day of his life, was young, if pale, and, even in the event if he _had_ used magic, to alter his appearance, he definitely did not move like an old man.

He was simply _too young!_

\- Your teacher? _Boy_ , I have met a lot of people who might fit under that description. But yes, _your teacher_ must have been among them, judging by the fact alone that you have barged into my home now.

\- Prove it!

The words had been thrown before Zargothrax had had a chance to think twice about what he was saying and the consequences it could bring along – and it was visible that the man claiming to be the Mysterious Hermit of Cowdenbeath did not like it one bit.

\- _Prove it?_ To whom, may I ask? – He stared at Zargothrax, over arms crossed on chest, caring little for the demand. – I do not know your name, nor can I see your face. Why should I prove anything, to you?

\- Sorry, - the wizard muttered, pulling the hood off his head, hoping that he at least looked presentable enough.

Judging by the fellow’s facial expression (if asked, Zargothrax would place it somewhere in the uncanny valley between surprise and appal), he really did not look presentable enough, and, having rested his staff against the wall, the wizard attempted to save what yet could be saved, in terms of first impressions, at the very least by smoothing his hair out. That did the trick, apparently, for, when he looked again, the supposed hermit’s face once again showed no other emotion than boredom.

\- I hereby swear that what I told you is the truth.

The sorcerer stared at the sign alit on the hermit’s palm; he had summoned the oath just like _that_ , in one sentence, yet its power was nothing Zargothrax had ever seen a magical oath summon before.

Not even the oaths, spoken by the magisters, had radiated such energy.

\- I…

 _How do you even talk to somebody like… like… well, like_ this _?_

\- How did you do that? Teacher lived for very long, too, but he did so because of lucky circumstances! He was an old man! And you are here all… all… _not old_! How is that possible?!

_That’s how, apparently?_

\- Do you not think introductions are in order, before I reveal the famed secrets of immortality to you? – There was somehow both amusement and sarcasm in the hermit’s voice. – You start. It’ll only be polite that way; after all, it is _you_ who barged into my home, is it not?

\- Yes, forgive me. - The young sorcerer bowed. – I am Zargothrax, a sorcerer of Auchtermuchty, of the Spellcaster, Summoner, and the Necromancer Circles. Also known as the Scourge of Auchtermuchty, to friends… and also faeries, I guess.

He could swear he saw the hermit’s lips twitch with what was either amusement, or slight distress, at the mention of the fae.

\- Zargothrax, - nonetheless, the hermit sounded unimpressed, as he repeated the name, slowly. – An extravagant name.

\- It’s what I have. And with you, I assume we’ll be here for the rest of the day, right? One who’s lived for so long must have at least fifty titles by now!

\- It’s Ralathor.

\- Ralathor, and..? Master? Magister? _Arch mage?_

\- Just Ralathor.

\- And that’s it?! No impressive titles? Family names? Not even Circles?

\- No.

\- Well, that’s just disappointing! What’s the point of being the only person in the world who’s mastered something like that, and then introduce yourself just like… wait, that… that, that _thing_ from before! That was _it_ , right? The… how did they call it again… spell weaving?

The Hermit of Cowdenbeath sighed, aloud, before he facepalmed.

_This was going to be a long day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In Zargothrax's defence, when somebody who is 100+ years old says ‘‘yeah I met that guy once, when I was really young’‘, the logical course of action is normally to assume that the guy in question is long dead.  
> Alas, nobody bothered to inform the ''dead guy'' about it.
> 
> 2\. In Ralathor's defence, until the last moment when that hood finally came off, he really, really hoped he'd see Angus standing there.  
> Alas, nobody bothered to inform Angus, _or_ Zargothrax, about it.

**Author's Note:**

> If honestly, then at this point I feel like Zargothrax has only survived in this series because he's stubborn af.


End file.
